. . .
Only rarely these days did Hoss’s letters mention the fix he was in. Once or twice he made a scant reference to “that cop case,” or “the crap in Maryland,” but otherwise, his missives spoke of love and hate, and all in between.
I read a book about emotional behavior. There was a story about a little girl who was punished by getting put in a clothes closet. After a rather long silence the mother inquired from her side of the door, “What are you doing?” The child replied, “I’ve spat on your hat, I’ve spat on your coat, I’ve spat on your shoes. Now I’m waiting for more spit.”
Stan said the story reminded him of something LeAnn, their three-year-old, would do. Diane agreed, but also mused that it was how Stan had always been. He just never could have enough spit.
For one so undereducated, Stanley’s letters showed a fair degree of skill, despite the occasional grammatical error or misspelling. May 25 brought his book of the week, which included Rudolf Flesch’s 25 Rules of Effective Writing, and fostered an alchemy. As the weeks passed, mistakes decreased, and Hoss’s penmanship approached calligraphy. He’d joke, “These people down here want me to learn something before they kill me.” Yet this cold man— one bullet for Joe, two for Linda, and a bunch for Lori Mae—now showed the same pride in his improved letter writing as he had in honing his criminal skills as a boy. “I’m getting good at it,” he boasted.
Upon his conviction and return to prison, Hoss’s situation was markedly changed. As a convict condemned to death, he was locked up for all but fifteen minutes each day. He was denied the privileges available to inmates “free” in the general population. He was not allowed to work, use the telephone, socialize, or participate in any groups, activities, or education. Even his visits were restricted to one per month, although this was eventually expanded to four.
“I read my weekly book, usually in a day, then I look at the walls. I listen to W.E.E.P from 8 to 10 then go to sleep,” wrote Hoss.
He rarely spoke to the guards or to prisoners in nearby cells. Letters were his lifeline. Now a prolific letter writer himself, he usually responded in kind, and he implored family, friends, and women to come see him.
Stanley pressed Diane to visit with the kids. Feeling guilty about keeping their children away, she finally acquiesced. He got upset when Diane discussed changing her last name, and that of the kids. At the end of the visit, she turned away from Stanley’s kiss. After a week he wrote to apologize.
I know you are right about changing names. I don’t want my kids to suffer or feel different from other kids. But I want to say to you I’m very proud of the name Stanley B. Hoss, Jr. I made fools out of the best FBI guys in the country.
“Made fools out of …”? Did he mean it took so long to catch him, or something more consequential: legerdemain during FBI interviews, a shell game with bodies?
Stanley assured Diane that it was over with Jodine, but Diane was leery. One day she received an envelope. Inside was a Wanted poster of Hoss, and a piece of paper with a fly squashed on it. She knew this creepy message came from Jodine. In any case, Diane wrote gingerly to Stan, “I still love you but not in the strong love I used to have for you.” This wounded Stan, but he continued to write, seeking sympathy—“The world holds nothing for me”— or venting irritation about prison life—“It’s no wonder I can’t write you a good letter. They have this f—— homosexual locked up above me. All day long he runs his mouth to these niggers in here and it gets on my nerves.”
If Diane failed to write for a period, he’d wheedle: “Soon I’ll pay for all those people I hurt. Can’t you wait till then to stop hurting me?”
On June 20, 1970, Hoss was arraigned for prison breach from the Allegheny County Workhouse. At a hearing a week later the prosecution sought the addition of ten years to Hoss’s sentence for Defino’s rape, but Hoss’s attorney adroitly argued his client had not actually been sentenced to the workhouse when the escape occurred (having been transfered there because of overcrowding), so punishment had to be capped at two years.
Hoss convinced the officers assigned to death row to play loose with the book quota. By mid-summer, he was reading almost as much as he liked, and his newspaper subscription began as well. He devoured each issue, down to the Stork Club announcements. Further, he became enamored with Shakespeare, politics (hanging a picture of George Wallace on his wall), and military history, especially Rommel, Patton, and Custer. He tried to learn, but his interpretation of what he learned was poor. In one letter, he wrote, “Judge Strauss is nothing but a dirty Jew. Hitler should have got all those f—— Jews.”
Hoss began a fitness regimen in his cell: isotonics, situps, and, as he grew stronger, 1,000 daily pushups, done in sets of 100. At 198 pounds, he had no flab. Haircuts were available monthly, but Hoss skipped them. On one legal visit, Edgar Snyder joked, “Stanley, you look like one of the Rolling Stones.”
Word spread among staff that their prize captive was devouring a book a day—Poe, Steinbeck, Twain, even the English poets—but the thinking that had brought him to prison was unchanged.
I was reading in my paper a witness against me at my trial got robbed of $36.00 then the bandit got away. The witness was Ben Tarr who has that Texaco station on Plum Street where that punk cop got shot. The only mistake the bandit made was not putting a bullet in Tarr’s head.
. . .
Over the summer, a three-judge panel considered the defense’s appeal of Hoss’s conviction. It addressed the issues raised, one by one, and rejected them. Left for last were the two points with the most weight, the denial of a change of venue for the trial, and the introduction of testimony not strictly limited to Zanella’s shooting for the sentencing phase. Judge Strauss did most of the talking for the panel.
“That venue was not changed we do not believe violated the rights of the accused,” said Strauss, “and you’re aware an agreement was reached with the media to hold publicity to a minimum, particularly with regard to sensationalism. Keep in mind an unbiased jury does not mean the entire population of Allegheny County should be hermetically sealed against all largely factual news exposure.”
The venue issue done away with, all in the room, including law students and a good many established criminal attorneys, waited to hear how the panel handled the defense’s chief objection.
The relatively new Split Verdict Act provided that after a verdict of first-degree murder is returned, the convicting jury may hear evidence regarding past deeds of the accused to help it determine the sentence. During the sentencing phase, therefore, Strauss had allowed the jury to hear of prior convictions, confessions, and admissions. This was unambiguous; as Fagan put it, “It says what it says.” Now Strauss fortified this position.
“The court did not violate Hoss’s rights when permitting testimony concerning crimes for which he’d not been charged or tried,” Strauss advised. “Pertaining to Karen Maxwell and the Peugeots, the Commonwealth can offer testimony of the crimes committed during flight, to show the defendant’s state of mind, consciousness of guilt.”
Strauss removed his glasses and leaned forward before starting again, speaking extemporaneously. “Every fact which will aid in passing a proper judgment is relevant, not only the facts of the crime involved but every bit of trustworthy information that will aid in determining the type of individual to be sentenced [“My darling Diane, Don’t pity me. What I did I would do again if it came to it.”] … and this is mandatory when the decision involves a possible imposition of death.”
Strauss raised his hands to shoulder level, palms cupped as if weighing two grapefruits, then spoke with patience and common sense. “Certainly, therefore, evidence of a defendant’s other crimes, consisting of his own freely made admissions, even though the crimes were committed after the crime on trial, is relevant, important for the jury to consider what manner of man the defendant is on the day the awesome decision must be made whether he should live or die.” [“Dear Diane,” wrote Hoss, “one more thing I heard
at my trial and I almost broke out laughing, was when that cop stopped that bullet the people said he started to pray. How do you like that? All those big bad cops punk out at the end. I sleep like a baby at night.”]
The motion for a new trial was denied, clearing the way for the formal sentencing of Stanley Hoss.
With the usual high security, Sheriff Coon’s men transported Hoss to Pittsburgh’s courthouse from the penitentiary, then escorted him to Courtroom Number 3, newly renovated with gold-toned carpeting and lowered ceiling. As with Hoss’s other court appearances, faces filled windows and bodies crowded the hallways but there was strict order.
On this September 18, 1970, one year less a day since Officer Joe Zanella was killed, spectators watched Hoss enter, dressed in a dark suit and tie with a pastel shirt. He’d evidently decided on a haircut; his hair was combed forward in the front while the sides were slicked back, calling to mind a fifties rocker rather than a Rolling Stone.
Judge Strauss knew well the type of individual before him but, as a God-fearing Christian, he took no joy in this profound moment. Strauss listened to prosecutor Ted Fagan ask pro forma that the court impose the sentence of death, as decreed by the jury.
Strauss asked Hoss if he had anything to say. Even those close by strained to hear as Hoss answered, “I have nothing to say.” With that, Strauss read a prepared statement, that Hoss would suffer death during a week fixed by the governor, and ended with, “May God in his infinite wisdom have mercy on your soul.” There was no enigmatic smile this time from the condemned man. Some said they swore Hoss gulped at Strauss’s last words, but his eyes remained stony.
With the sentence a foregone conclusion, Snyder and Baxter continued to fight for Hoss, announcing that they’d appeal to the commonwealth’s Supreme Court. Other legal matters cluttered Hoss’s file, including multiple detainers for crimes he’d committed on the run, but most significantly the looming trial in Maryland for the kidnapping of Linda and Lori Mae Peugeot. Prudence would advise Hoss to delay extradition to Maryland at all costs, yet weeks earlier, an unadvised, untutored Stanley Hoss had written to the Maryland courts demanding a speedy trial.
. . .
On the one-year anniversary of the Peugeots’ kidnapping, journalist Steve Morrow visited with Linda’s mother, Edna Thompson. It had been many months since he had last seen her. The mignonne woman appeared even smaller, with thinner hair and paler skin. Morrow was also struck by the hollowness in Edna’s eyes, a frightening vacancy. Edna sadly recalled her daughter’s and granddaughter’s disappearance.
I remember when she didn’t come back, we called the police. They said it was too early to put out an alert. Then the FBI came to say she’d been kidnapped.
They kept telling me there was no hope, but sometimes I thought maybe she could be alive. About three months ago I got a phone call. In the background I heard a girl’s voice say the name Lori Mae—and it sounded like my Linda. I was panicked, excited, everything. I called the FBI right then. They said Linda couldn’t be alive, that there was just too much blood in the trunk of the car.
On the wall behind Edna hung a number of framed photographs: Linda with husband Gerald in his navy blues; Linda seated in an MG making a funny face; Lori Mae nose to nose with Duke, the family’s pet poodle …
“The year has been a hard one,” said Edna. “My son-in-law Gerald is a steel worker now in Pittsburgh. He doesn’t say much but he’s the kind that takes it out inside. My husband and I get upset and say things to him we shouldn’t, and he doesn’t say anything.”
“And you, Edna?” asked Morrow gently. “How are you?”
“Some nights I sleep well, and some nights I just sit in my room till morning. The other night I jumped out of bed as I dreamed I felt the bullets going through me. Sometimes in the daytime I go down into the basement and scream and scream. I don’t think I’ll ever be through it.”
. . .
In the tedium of death row, one month is like three. Yet, like any shut-in, the inmate becomes reconciled to a routine. Breakfast and lunch at 6:30 and 10:30, supper at 3:30, or 4:00 at the latest. At first exposure to early mealtimes, prisoners would complain, only to get the unvarying response, “Get used to it.” From the prison kitchen, the food would come over on wheeled carts called trucks, their arrival signaled by the rattle of their wheels, and the traditional, loud-voiced Truuh-Kupp! The food was tepid. Hoss never griped about the meals, except to say he sometimes ate too much and had to watch his weight.
After months of a self-imposed Spartan regimen, Hoss began to loosen up. For the first time he bought from the commissary a bag of potato chips. He also found a chum. “I have been talking to my friend all day,” he wrote Diane at the end of June 1970. “He’s in the cell above me and they just put him in there today. It’s the first I’ve talked to anyone. I feel so much better now.”
Still, Stanley’s mind churned about his future. Two things dominated his attention: his appeal for a new trial on Zanella’s shooting and his meeting with his lawyers from Maryland.
Triggered by Hoss’s demand for an immediate trial in Maryland, two lawyers drove from Cumberland to the penitentiary for a first meeting. Their names were Louis Fatkin and John Robb.
Cumberland did not have a Public Defenders Office, but as Hoss had filed en pauperus, the court was mandated to appoint counsel. From a pool of local lawyers on record as willing to take such cases, Fatkin and Robb were plucked.
The Maryland attorneys had read about Hoss and heard all the rumors, so they were relieved when their new client appeared in the interview room shackled, with a giant guard posted just outside.
Today I had a visit from the two attorneys who will represent me in Cumberland on those kidnapping charges. They said if I’m found guilty Maryland will give me death for each kidnapping. They said people down there want my blood real bad and are even mad at them for taking my case. I thought I could beat one death sentence but I’ll never beat three. Oh well.
There was only one thing to do: escape. To that end Hoss plotted. Knowing it was impossible to escape from death row and almost as impossible to escape from the general confines of Western Penitentiary, Hoss determined that he’d have to connive to be taken out, to come up with some legitimate purpose for travel. This opportunity—to be in transport—was the same one he’d engineered by telling the feds he’d lead them to the Peugeot graves, and maybe he could have pulled off an escape then had not the trip been aborted after it had hardly begun. Hoss now figured correctly that if he had to appear at a trial or proceeding far away from Pittsburgh, he’d be held at a local jail, often a place lacking the security of a major prison. He’d skip from there. He’d done it before.
With this calculation, Hoss became hell-bent on facing the disagreeable charges in Maryland, the sooner the better—but his new attorneys disagreed. Fatkin and Robb not only saw no advantage in rushing matters, they actively counseled delay. They also explained that Maryland might be unable to proceed to trial until the Pennsylvania Supreme Court had ruled on Hoss’s appeal in the policeman’s killing. Hoss left his meeting with Fatkin and Robb frustrated and angry. He wrote Diane,
I’m firing those attorneys in Maryland and be my own attorney. You will hear about it in the news. The name change for the kids is smart. It won’t get better. You know what a big thing they make out of the Hoss name.
Hoss never carried through with sacking Fatkin and Robb, but he worried they would not abide by his wishes, and thus redoubled his personal efforts. For the first time in his life, he employed the written word to get his way, rather than gun or fist. As he wrote Diane, “My main thing now is law. Day and night I’m busy studying. My cell is filled with nothing but law books.”
Compared with his earlier letter to the Maryland courts, Hoss’s motion of August 27 was based on legal principle, and polished. He railed against Fatkin and Robb as likely to seek a continuance—to delay a trial beyond the 180 days a speedy trial requires—but Hoss would have none of it: “Beca
use I am innocent I seek an immediate trial before Maryland’s malicious delay irreparably damages my defense.” Not above theatrics, Hoss wrote, “Maryland knows she falsely accuses, has no good case against me, and strives to murder me,” ending his three-page letter with, “I in NO WAY seek, desire or accept a continuance of these indictments.”
Once the motion was notarized and mailed, Hoss began to fret. He wondered if Maryland required reasons why he demanded a speedy trial other than he was innocent as a lamb.
Dog-earing more pages, Hoss again petitioned Maryland on September 15. Again, his demand was ably written—and bolstered with lies. In this four-page thrust, Hoss branded Fatkin and Robb as vipers. “If Fatkin and Robb defy my demand, they will be colluding criminally with Maryland’s prosecutor, whose tactics have already caused a loss forever [of the] testimony of four witnesses who would have established beyond all doubt my innocence.” Without a speedy trial, Hoss argued, “I’ll never be able to defend myself because of my remaining witnesses, one will soon be in Viet Nam, and two are elderly in poor health. If trial is further delayed I will lose contact with my witnesses, their memories will dim and they might die or be killed, and with them their words establishing my complete innocence.” Then Hoss once more slurred the Maryland courts for conspiring to murder him.
Not forgetting his goal to escape, Hoss got word of his plan to two carefully chosen convicts. Would they join him? He got word back: They were in.
. . .
Since Hoss’s conviction for her rape, Kathy Defino had graduated high school but had forgone an academic scholarship to college. She couldn’t concentrate. Maybe later. Something was wrong but she did not know what. She kept up a front, particularly for her family—hadn’t she caused them enough trouble?—but her soul was hollow, vitality and interests gone. She’d go places but not as much as before. It was a chore to laugh with friends. Happier in isolation, contact dwindled.
Born to Lose Page 32
